


Pluck

by cassandra_leeds (The_Circadian)



Category: Fright Night (2011)
Genre: Background Het, Blood Kink, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Dubious Consent, M/M, Molestation, Other, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 07:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5084077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circadian/pseuds/cassandra_leeds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charley's friend has been turned and now his neighbor is dead. Charley goes back in for the kill. It doesn't go as well as he'd planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pluck

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted [on livejournal.](http://cassandra-leeds.livejournal.com/28732.html)

Charley smells new paint.

 

He coughs. The room won’t stop spinning - his heart beating bruises into his chest, his pulse thundering pain against the inside of his skull so hard it’s sickening. He can barely feel anything else for a moment but then the world goes numb in a flurry of sound and his face aches. Again and again. Punch after punch. He fights to breathe, mouth sticky and tangy with his own blood. When he managed a ragged inhale, the taste mixes with the sterile smell of the house, its paint and fresh tile. It all adds up to, even through the panic (and maybe because of it), Charley feeling viciously alive in this deceptively clean space.

 

He manages to open his eyes enough to see the gray of the walls, his fingers grabbing for the surface to catch on something – anything. Dark smears are left behind in echoing lines as a grip on the collar of his shirt pulls him across smooth tile. His hip bumps into the stairs as he’s pulled up by his arm. Each step hits his spine, his arms, the back of his head.

 

Oh, God, upstairs.

 

A dark laugh. “You looked lighter.”

 

Charley’s sputtering out wet words of protest but his brain is fuzzy and it doesn’t sound like his voice. It sounds higher, more frantic, like a younger version of himself. He knows where he’s going, where he’s being taken – memories of white walls and picking locks smatter his brain. The shock. The taste of her ash still vivid on his tongue. She’s dead. She died. And he’s lost too if he can’t get out of this.

 

He can’t remember – Why had he come here alone? Had he come alone? Shit. “Where’s Amy?”

 

Another low chuckle from above and then Charley’s propped against a wall, head spinning. A cold hand surrounds his jaw, nails sharp on his ear. Charley shudders, shifts back with repulsion, and feels ill with the effort, the throbbing in his head edging into nausea. He chokes out again, “Where’s Amy?”

 

Momentary focus brings dark eyes into close view, black hair, the dank scent of earth and cement, the coppery smell of human blood on breath. Charley chokes and this time gags.

 

“Amy’s not here, Charley.”

 

The sharp point of the stake in his pocket reminds him he’s armed by sticking into the meat of his own thigh as he shifts, and he reaches for it, his hand heavy and cumbersome.

 

Jerry gets there first, pulls the hastily made weapon out of Charley’s pocket and tosses it into his own grip, grinning briefly. “And here I thought you were just happy to see me.” Charley swallows and closes his eyes, hears the wood hitting step after step after it’s tossed.

 

“Charley, Charley, Charley,” Jerry breathes. “You were doing well, you really were.” Jerry scoots back, stoops slightly to get into Charley’s line of sight. “I haven’t had this much fun with someone trying to hunt me down for…” Jerry bites his lip and shakes his head, “for a long time.”

 

He pulls in again, breath tepid. “Ridiculous, but kind of impressive, all the same.” He draws in a deep breath, smelling up the side of Charley’s face and Charley bites back an audible shudder. “Imagine being a wolf and watching a lamb trying to stalk you.”

 

Charley shakes his head but Jerry already has his hand in his hair, wet with blood, running his finger through it, making the whole side of his head damp.

 

“I’ll admit, I’m excited,” he whispers. “The rest were a means to an end; I need them to survive and make sure we survive.” He works the tacky tendrils of Charley’s hair through his fingers. “But you’re different.”

 

Charley swallows, throat bruised and there’s defiance in the words when he spits shallowly, “You're not going to sell it to me.”

 

Jerry looks down at him, surprised but pleasantly so. The glint of a fang touched by moonlight catches Charley’s eye. It’s no less surreal than it was when he’d first seen this monster feed. It’s unreal even when he knows his life is very possibly about to end the same way, when he knows he’ll be something else if he doesn’t by some miracle get rescued or get out of this himself.

 

But he’s dazed, most likely suffering from a concussion, he’s not sure whether it’s the dull ache under his rib or his armpit that’s responsible for the whole upper right side of his clothes clinging to him with blood. Which leaves him physically without much to work with.

 

What time is it? Maybe he could wait, hold him off… break a window…

 

Jerry shakes his head and brings Charley’s attention back to him. “No,” he chides. “No, none of that.” He puts a finger to his own lips as if to hush and then bites down quickly, licks his lips. “No one’s coming for you, Charley. It’s just us.” The tip of his finger turns dark in the half light and he rubs his fingertip and thumb against each other briefly before painting them over his lips slowly, until they too are filthy and shining with blood, as pornographic as smeared lipstick.

 

He can hold him off, Charley thinks. Make him talk.

 

Jerry holds his finger up, levels his gaze. “I’ll tell you what I told your friend: it’s a gift.”

 

Charley takes a deep, sore breath. Make him talk.

 

“Oh, yeah?”

 

Jerry licks some of his own blood off of his lips, shifts himself closer and the scent of his blood hits Charley like a punch. Suddenly he is breathless and undeniably hard, muscles taut and straining. He’s never been this hard so fast in his life; it’s unnatural and intoxicating and he sucks in his breath, holds it to try and get himself back under control. But all that does is keep the fragrant traces of it deep inside him, sinking into his lungs like a drug. He lets out his breath in a gust, sucking in his lip to keep the sounds that threaten to break from his lips inside. He’s shaking. This isn’t normal attraction. There is nothing mortal here to want. This is a drug. This is a trap, except here the hook and the lure are one in the same.

 

“Where I came from, they used to sacrifice women to me.” Jerry confides it like a proud secret, tucks his finger into Charley’s shirt and runs the nail down its front, cutting away button after button until he can push it open, place his hand flat over the thinner fabric of his t-shirt. “They tied them to trees. And the women - they wanted it. They submitted with lowered eyes.” Charley can almost see it, sees them with arms bound, eyes rolling back as Jerry pulls their legs around him and feeds and feeds. Hears their screams, drunken and desperate, in crescendo.

 

Charley’s hips give a feeble push up towards nothing and he feels humiliation join in next to the fear and want as he senses Jerry pause at it, just enough to consider it, but continues. He grins against Charley’s ear when he whispers, “They thought I was a god.”

 

The blood is so close. It’s so close.

 

Charley grunts and squirms, this new need running through him like a sickness, a fever taking him over, every inch of him hungry. Jerry traces his jugular with the edge of his nail and breathes out again, and the smell of his blood washes over Charley again. He groans, hips pivoting helplessly as he whimpers and shakes his head.

 

“You’re no god,” Charley grits out. He pulls himself together enough to glance down at his watch. It’s four fifty. The sun should be rising by five. There’s a window above him. He just needs to break it. He doesn’t have anything to break glass with except himself though... he could try to hit it with his watch.

 

“Depends how you look at it.” Jerry says and that voice sounds so good now it’s painful. “I gave them new life. I’m giving them all new life, Charley. Your friend, your girlfriend, your Mom…”

 

Charley throws a punch at that, does it without thinking, rage blazing and quickly put out when Jerry catches Charley’s fist with a quick laugh. “Easy,” he coos and Charley glares back, body shaking with anger and exhaustion, and that slithering unending want for the unnatural choice right there in front of him, lickable and promising.

 

The world is a haze of dizzy half-thoughts now though. Half-thoughts and blood. And he can’t speak, can’t find a word for this. That blood. Right there. If he relaxed his face in acceptance, or, fuck, if he even met eyes with Jerry now this would be over. He’d see. He’d see that there isn’t a ‘no’ left in him.

 

He suddenly wants Jerry to kiss him so much it’s maddening. He groans and bucks up again hard. No, not kiss. He wants that mouth to claim his until his living breath is gone, until he’s swallowing down blood and spit and opening his eyes on a new world, another world where he would prowl and kill and turn. Undetected; in disguise; naturally adapting to every new town, city, country. Charley knows how to adapt. It was hard as hell but he’d made his way into the in crowd. But like this, like Jerry, he wouldn’t have to fight for it. He wouldn’t even have to try.

 

He’s got to fight this though. He’s got to.

 

The room is getting brighter even through the uneven barrier of the blacked-out glass. The sun is rising. A tiny memory of a past plan flares up and sputters out, impotent, but nagging, like he should remember what that means – the sun coming up – what he was supposed to do now.

 

Jerry traces the neckline of Charley’s shirt absently. “You’re going to like it, Charley. I know you will.” He leans in until he’s a breath away, lips hovering over Charley’s. Jerry wets the blood on his own lips with his tongue. And Charley feels himself lick his own, mirroring him and breathless. “You won’t be alone, or watching out for anyone, or left behind, or dying to fit in anymore, Charley. Just us… Just you and me.”

 

But Charley can’t breathe and has stopped even hearing the words, focusing on the gleam of blood in the corner Jerry’s mouth, the dark unwavering gaze when he looks up. He sucks in his breath as the weight on his lap shifts, Jerry’s ass and legs pressing down and over the aching hardness in his jeans.

 

Jerry wraps his whole arm around the back of Charley’s head, leans in, and buries himself in the warm cove of his neck.

 

There is a moment, as Jerry’s lips touch his skin, where Charley realizes what’s happening. His eyes open wide in horror and the last surge of strength he has left fighting for survival makes him pull up his legs, raise his arms to push him off. Teeth sink into flesh. Charley shouts and Jerry makes a soft grunting sound of satisfaction, pushes his bloody fingers into Charley’s open mouth, and hums out another more obscene sound through warm swallows as Charley wraps his lips around Jerry’s fingers and sucks, eyes squeezed shut.

 

The room’s already too bright even in the shadows.


End file.
